


A Step Too Far

by BrokenKestral (Amphigoriously)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amphigoriously/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark!John<br/>Months of living with Sherlock culminate in drunken ruin. Possible series. Heed the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Step Too Far

Sherlock was, as always, oblivious to anything other than himself. And, on the rare occasion, John. Still, though they’d been living together for over six months now, the subject of sexuality hadn’t been raised since that initial, slightly awkward conversation at Angelo’s. Whereas everyone at the Yard and Mrs. Hudson and probably the people on the street just assumed that Sherlock and John were a couple, Sherlock himself was completely oblivious to any kind of sexual tension or social ineptitudes that he may be performing toward his flatmate.

If he happened to walk in on John while the other man was in the shower, so what? They were both men, and nudity was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, and after all, Sherlock had needed to brush his teeth. If he interrupted John wanking on the rare occasion to drag the good doctor out onto the streets of London, well, that was just unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. And of course, there had been that one time Sherlock had pinned John to a brick wall in a narrow alley, lean body pressed against John’s military one, and held a hand over his mouth, so close they could feel each other’s ribs moving with their panicked breaths as they waited for the threat to pass.

These were just a series of events to Sherlock. This, and of course the fact he had no regard for personal space of any sense of what normal social boundaries were, and it was really no wonder that John had gone down to the pub to get away from the sullen and petulant younger man. It was really no wonder that one day, John would snap. 

The night had gone from bad to worse for John. Three sodding times this week Sherlock had both aroused him beyond measure, and then interrupted his efforts at release in the privacy of his own bed. Combined with very little sleep and an impossibly boring series of clinic shifts, and John was twitching for something. Sex, a fight, bloody anything other than the anticlimactic nothing that built up over...well months, really. 

He'd gone to his favorite pub on the heels of a one-sided argument between he and Sherlock. The younger of the pair seemingly oblivious to John's cracking frustration. Within his first hour, he'd killed four pints and won three rounds of darts. Hell, there was even a woman on his arm and lipstick on his neck. She'd suggested they move to another pub, and he'd agreed. 

She spent the night dancing salaciously against him, her curves undulating against him in all the right places as they danced, shots of liquor in his belly mixing with the beer, nerves buzzing, mind all but shut off. And then her boyfriend arrived and stole her away without so much the courtesy of a fight. 

With his muscles pulled tight and his anger seething, John made his way home at half two. An unattended erection and a lighter wallet were all the evening had provided.

Sherlock was just as John had left him, bent over his microscope at the kitchen table, an array of chemicals and various bits and pieces of unidentifiable things scattered over its surface. He didn’t even give John the courtesy of looking up from where he was sitting, his long back arched in a bow, perfectly tailored shirt hugging his lean form, turned up to his elbows and open at the throat.

“Two pubs in a night then? Tragic that your date had a previous arrangement.” Without looking up, just from the sides of his vision, Sherlock had perfectly deduced the other man, from the smell of him, the sound of his feet, knew just how much liquor the other man had imbibed. Long, elegant fingers delicately messed with the calibration knobs on the side of his microscope, not bothering to finish his deductions with even the barest hello. 

"How about you piss off, Sherlock?" John snapped, stumbling slightly on the way to the kitchen sink. A quick, messy look-through of the cabinets, doors nearly coming off their hinges in his sloppy irritation, showed that yet again, every cup and dish they possessed was either dirty or in some sort of laboratory use. 

"It wouldn't kill you to clean up after yourself, Sherlock. Damn it." His patience was tethering thin, the long chord stretched to the very last fraying fibers. He slammed the last cabinet door shut with such force it bounced open from the impact. 

He gripped the edge of this sink and bowed his head, trying to slow his breathing as the room swam around him and his knuckles tingled with want for a blow.

Sherlock frowned, irritated by the sudden noise as John made his way round the kitchen behind him. Huffing with impatience, Sherlock finally looked up from his slide, the corners of his full mouth turned down, his pale eyes hard, glittering, as he took in the state of his flatmate. “Must you create such a fuss? You’re quite _obviously_ drunk, and I abhor you when you smell of cheap beer and that woman’s absolutely _horrid_ perfume. Go and sleep it off, John. You’re no use to _anyone_ in such a state, least of all me.”

Selfish as always, Sherlock sniffed, disdainful, and lifted his chin in that slightly haughty way before turning back to his microscope, now finishing with his scathing diatribe. 

"Right, of course. No other reason to have me about unless I'm of some use to you, you _sodding arse_." John's knuckles went white against the counter with the force of his grip. 

"And who gives a damn how I smell, Sherlock?" He snarled as he turned from the counter, fists shoved deep into his pockets as he glared at the man. "Hmm? Why the _hell_ should I care if you _don't like it_?" 

Sherlock took another moment to finish his observation, jotting down an absent note in his moleskine before he rose, rolling his head on that ridiculous long neck, and then standing, crowding into John’s space, his eyes narrow and slightly cold. “You’re being ridiculous, John. You’ll regret yourself in the morning. Go to bed. Your presence offends me.” 

John looked up, eyes blazing with rage as he met Sherlock's. "I suggest you take a step back," he whispered, his hands sliding from his pockets without thought.

Sherlock lifted his chin again, staring down the bridge of his nose, using his height to his advantage, not oblivious to John’s mood, to the threat of violence, but completely missing the underlying current of arousal. “Oh? And what else do you suggest, John?” 

His fist flew before he'd time to think on it, rage coursing through his veins as he laid a powerful right-hook across that smartass jaw. The dam had broken, and he was lost in the flood, driven by months of frustrated anger. 

He moved without hesitation, years of battlefield wrapping around him like a familiar blanket as he swept a foot out and took Sherlock's legs from under him.

Sherlock was no stranger to a good fight. As the certificate above his bed proclaimed, he was a blackbelt in Judo. Still. He hadn’t been expecting John Watson, Army Doctor, to actually _hit_ him. He gave a surprised growl as a hard fist connected with his jaw, and tasted blood suddenly across his tongue. Before he could regain his bearings, he felt his legs buckle, and the hard linoleum of the kitchen floor rise to meet him, cracking against his arse, his back, his elbows, the back of his head.

By instinct, he swept his own leg, bringing John down to his level, trying to clear the stars from his eyes as he heard the heavy thump of another body hitting the ground. 

A brilliant flair of sensation -something that promised to turn to pain, that should be pain now were it not for the intoxicated fury humming through his body- exploded from his knees as he hit the floor. He was silent as he reached up, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his pristine shirt, rumpling the material between his fingers as he dragged the man toward him. 

"Never bloody listen," he bit out as he rose his fist, bringing his bruised knuckles down across Sherlock's face again.

Sherlock growled, gave a sharp cry of pain as John’s fist connected with his lip, splitting it open, blood blossoming in a streak down his chin. Still, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t about to take this kind of drunken abuse without fighting back, and he tried to get a knee up between John’s, his own hand striking out, catching John in the shoulder, right where the pinched nerve was, not as much force behind it as if he’d been standing, but enough to hurt nonetheless. 

John flinched violently away from the shredding pain across his shoulder, hazy images mingling with the sudden shock of _dust/sand/blood/noise_ and he roared with a tangled flood of ghosting memory. 

His hand shot out and caught Sherlock's wrist, adrenalin and alcohol lending him strength above his typical ability as he ruthlessly pinned it to the floor, kicking a leg over Sherlock's hips as he dropped down over the slender waist. Only Sherlock's left hand remained free as John's shoulder throbbed, the nerves of his left hand tingling with pain and numbness. 

Sherlock was panting already as he wiggled beneath John’s weight, beneath the hard press of hips over his waist, and the ruthless hand on his wrist. His left hand reached up, trying to press up into the pressure point at the junction between neck and shoulder, trying to dislodge the other man from him as he growled, blood dripping down his chin, bright crimson cutting a path over the white of his throat. 

"You fight like a _fucking coward,_ " John seethed, willing his hand to grip at Sherlock's wrist. He snapped that hand to the floor as well, heart thundering against his ribs as his vision tinted red. 

"You don't give a damn about anything but yourself, you sodding prick. Always the better, always the most fucking important," he raged on, spit flying from his lips as he gave himself up to the sweet release of long-restrained anger. 

Sherlock was panting, breaths coming hard, narrow chest rising and falling as he glared up at the other man, his once crisp shirt rumpled, two of the buttons undone with the abuse done to it, his throat and collarbone exposed as he frowned, went still under the hard press of John’s hands. 

“Let me go, John.” His voice was clipped, low and dangerous as he stared up into John’s darker eyes, blown and hazy with liquor and rage. 

John's gaze lingered on Sherlock's for a moment before the atmosphere shifted slightly, another sensation bumping at the edges of his nearly blind anger. He trailed his vision down slowly, first to Sherlock's split lip, along the line of blood trailing down his chin, to the tantalizing dip of Sherlock's throat where it met his chest. 

"It's as though you do this intentionally," John said absently to himself as he traced the line of Sherlock's collarbone with his eyes, "Like you want this and don't know how to ask for it." 

Sherlock felt the subtle shift in atmosphere, and couldn’t help the light flush that ran rampant over his high, angled cheekbones, his narrow chest still heaving, every muscle tense as he remained pinned to the floor. He could _feel_ the line of heat across his collarbone as John’s eyes flickered across it. Tongue darting out over the split in his lip, he sucked some of the blood off of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve done _nothing_ to you.” 

"Nothing?" He hissed, incredulous. " _Nothing_? You've done everything to me, Sherlock," he flexed his fingers tighter around Sherlock's wrists as he leaned down slightly, careful to keep out of Sherlock's range should the man choose to throw a head-butt. He angled his hips forward slightly and gave in to the urge to press his obvious erection into the soft of Sherlock's lower abdomen. 

"Day in and day out. Crowding into my space, walking in on me in various states of undress, working me to the edge before walking away. It's a sodding game to you, isn't it?" 

Sherlock fought the urge to panic, to wince, as John’s fingers tightened on his thin wrists, though he clenched his own tighter in response, fingernails digging into his palms. He couldn’t help the way the tips of his ears burned red-hot as the other man’s hips pressed down against him, as John’s erection became obvious against his belly. His brain was grinding to a halt, which turned out to be _incredibly_ inconvenient, given the circumstances. 

Narrowing his eyes, he glared up at his captor, his eyes sparking. “I’ve never given a second thought to your potential arousal, John. I need you when I need you, and nothing more. Everything else is just... _inconvenient._ ” Sherlock’s voice was nearly a sneer, haughty and proud, and he shifted beneath the other man, trying to press him off. 

Sherlock's words cut through him like a knife, coring out the very heart of everything he'd believed the nature of their relationship to be. He growled with anger and shoved off Sherlock, paying no attention to the pain in his knees as he rose to standing.

Hollow bitterness sliced through the haze of intoxication, sucking away his ability to think as he backed up to the table. With his eyes on Sherlock he slid his hand behind him slowly and -very intentionally- swept it across the carefully placed experiments on the table, savoring the orchestra of shattering glass. 

"How's that for _inconvenient_ , then?" 

Sherlock pushed up onto his elbows as John rose, then rolled over and up to his feet, his face paling with anger as his things hit the floor with the sharp shatter of breaking glass, shards of it skittering across the linoleum. Almost in slow motion he saw his microscope tip off the table, the sound of it connecting with the floor echoing dully in his ears.

The usually composed man let out a feral snarl, launching himself at the smaller man, his typically reserved face a mask of cold, seething anger. 

John sidestepped him at the last possible moment, feeling the shift of the air as Sherlock's outstretched fingers missed him by a breath. He caught the man by the back of his neck, slamming him down hard against the newly-cleared wood of the table, one hand catching the flailing wrist of Sherlock's right hand. He twisted and wrenched the bones up, bending Sherlock's elbow behind his back, pinning the back of his hand into the dip between his shoulder blades. 

"What is it they say about turnabout?" John hissed. 

Sherlock let out a hard noise of surprise, stars again swimming in his vision as he found his temple connecting with the hard wood table. He was scrambling to get back up when John’s hand wrenched his wrist hard backward, making him buck and groan in pain, his eyebrows furrowed together as he found himself pinned hard against the table, the sharp bite of wood on his thighs. He could do nothing in this position with the threat of John’s hand on his wrist. A simple motion that would dislocate a shoulder or snap a bone. Sherlock went still, save for the slight trembling in his limbs, his cheek pressed against the cold wood, blood dripping from his lip onto the table, one pale eye fixed backward on the other man.

Though he’d physically ceased struggling, it was obvious he hadn’t given up the fight by the sharp glare in his expression, the taut tension in his muscles, the way the fingers of his free hand gripped the edge of the table so hard all color leached from his skin. 

John pressed down viciously with the hand at the back of Sherlock's neck. 

"I can't hear you, Sherlock. I asked you a question." He demanded, his voice gone frigid and methodical, they physician bullied back by the soldier. He leaned down over Sherlock's back slowly, flexing his fingers on the wrist in his grip for good measure. His breathing ghosted across the shell of Sherlock's ear. 

"Go on, tell me." 

Sherlock scowled, simply growling in reply, determined not to answer, to see how far John would push this. Certainly the good doctor would never actually harm him. Still, the weight of John’s body pressing against him, the obvious erection pressed lightly onto his backside made a flutter of panic rise in his throat, and he yanked at his wrist suddenly, trying to buck the other man off with a surge of raw, wild energy. 

John responded ruthlessly as Sherlock rallied against him, breaking contact with the table momentarily. With the unrestricted use of his strength he slammed the man back into the table easily, abandoning the back of Sherlock's neck to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair, wrenching his head back. John pressed his chest hard over Sherlock's back, his hips now flush and rough against Sherlock's arse, lips at Sherlock's ear. 

"You were asked a question. You will answer the question." He repeated iron -hard and cold as stone, the kitchen all but fading away as he slid back to a persona he'd thought was left in the foothills of a desert, half a world away. 

Sherlock could hear his heart thrumming in his ears, and from seemingly far away he heard himself give a sharp cry of surprise and pain as his hair was wrenched, his throat curving as his head was pulled up, back forced into a graceful arc, which, in turn, forced his arse harder against John’s hips. 

The position was humiliating, debilitating. He grit his teeth, fingernails digging into the wood of the table, breath coming in hard little panting gasps as he fixed one pale eye on his flatmate and now attacker, managing, finally, to hiss out a harsh answer through his teeth. “I don’t know, John, what is it they say about turnabout?” 

"Still can't understand your position. Let's clear it up," John replied evenly, refusing to rise to Sherlock's bait. He released his violent grip on Sherlock's hair as he slowly peeled his chest off Sherlock's back, keeping his grip brutal, just shy of snapping bones, on Sherlock's wrist. 

He trailed his free hand down the curve of Sherlock's spine, over the swell of his backside as his fingers skid over the rich fabric, dipping low to the center of his arse as he shifted and kicked a foot between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock felt his breath catch, nearly painful, in his throat, as John’s hand caressed his arse through his trousers, and he flushed a delicate shade of pink as John’s foot kicked him, forced his legs wider apart. Panic flooded him rather suddenly, and he tugged at his wrist, winced as pain arced through it, his eyes fixed on the other man, his voice low still with that edge of superiority, of danger, of menace, despite his situation. “Let me _go_ , John.” 

"Say _please_ ," he quipped as his fingers trailed lower, palm turning so that the heel of his hand joined the tips of his fingers as he cupped the underside of Sherlock's arse. He gave Sherlock's leg another hearty kick to the side, ensuring the man bore most of his weight on his chest. 

Sherlock gave a grunt of dissatisfaction as his weight was forced onto the table, legs farther apart, the breath pushed from his lungs as he had to adjust and redistribute himself. John’s hand was grabbing him again, and he flushed with the implication, the hard flutter of panic forcing its way up in another sudden struggle, though it was far less effective, as his weight was no longer on his legs, but rather the balls of his feet, his chest, and he was having to steady himself with the other hand gripping the near edge of the table. “You’re _hurting_ me.” Still a snarl, Sherlock’s fingers flexing in John’s grip. 

"Not enough, clearly." 

He gave Sherlock's wrist the smallest half-turn, torquing the bones just shy of dislocation as he rolled his hips against Sherlock. His hand slid lower, over the swell of Sherlock's cock, heedless to his state of interest as his fingers flexed around the foreign flesh. 

Sherlock was just shy of half-hard, as he always seemed to be with adrenaline flowing through his veins, regardless of actual sexual arousal. He gave a sharp cry, arcing tight as John’s hand torqued his wrist, bucking unconsciously backward into the other man as he strove to relieve the pressure on the fragile bones. His cheeks dusted darker pink as John’s hand, hot and rough, closed around his prick, and he growled, fidgeting, trying to pull away, though there was no place to go, and this only served to grind his arse backward against John’s own erection. 

Sherlock's movements spiked a shock of intense arousal through John. He'd been toyed with enough. Without a word he released Sherlock's cock, bringing his hand up to roughly grab his shoulder and drag him back from the edge of the table a bit. 

"Do not move, and I won’t hurt you," he warned in monotone, his hand going to the wing of Sherlock's hip before sliding around the length of his belt, fingers making short work of the clasp. 

Sherlock blinked roughly, wincing at the harsh sound of his belt clinking against itself, as John’s rough fingers wrenched it open, and he could feel his breaths coming short and fast as he arced, trying in vain to see better behind him, his mouth and throat gone dry. “John... John what are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice was strained, clipped now. 

"Think of the retort you'd throw at me for such an asinine question," John replied absently, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's wrist as he unpicked the button of Sherlock's fly before snugging the zip down. 

Sherlock went pale, his face splotchy as John undid his button, the fly of his trousers, and he tried to pull away, back forward against the table, both to get away from John’s rough fingers, and to ease the now throbbing pain in his wrist and shoulder, instinctively trying to close his legs. 

John wrenched him back down with a hand on the back of his trousers. He torqued Sherlock's wrist until the man was forced up on tiptoe as he stepped forward, placing his feet between both of Sherlock's.

"Do not. Move." he bit out, flexing his hand in warning around the thin straining bones in his grip. "I _will_ hurt you." 

Sherlock grit his teeth, giving a groan of pain as his current was reaffirmed, made worse, even. His back was nearly in a bow now, the muscles of his legs standing out even through the fine fabric of his trousers, his entire body whip-cord tight with tension as he struggled to maintain. His trousers, loose now they were open, threatened to fall off his narrow hips, his shirt already untucking and rucking up on his back, leaving several inches of smooth, pale skin between the dark fabric of shirt and trousers. 

John eased the angle of his grip, though his fingers remained rock-solid around Sherlock's wrist. He returned his focus to the task at hand. Fingertips trailed over the expanse of newly-exposed skin before hooking into the loose material of Sherlock's trousers, pulling back and down so the material fell to the floor. 

He curled over Sherlock's back as arousal spiked in his chest. He grazed his teeth along the exposed skin at the back of Sherlock's neck, rocking his hips forward slowly, thrilling in the new heat available to him with just the thin fabric of Sherlock's pants to keep him covered.

Sherlock couldn’t help a soft noise of displeasure, nearly a whimper, almost a growl, as John pressed back hard against him, teeth scraping along his skin, and he could feel the hot outline of John’s prick through his jeans and the thin tight cotton of his pants, but could do nothing to draw himself away from it. 

"Isnt' this what you've wanted all this time, Sherlock? All your absurd teasing, week after week?" John asked cruelly, fingers dipping into the elastic of Sherlock's pants. 

"You act a good game, I'll give you that," he hissed, pulling the material over the swell of Sherlock's arse, backing his hips up enough to work his pants down. He paid no attention to the way they snagged on Sherlock's partial erection, yanking hard to drop the offending garment down. 

Sherlock flushed, gave a moan of discontent, his cheeks hot with shame the soft sound cotton joining his trousers somewhere in the vicinity of his knees grating in his ears. He felt horribly exposed, his shirt half-way up his back, tangled just below where John held his wrist captive still, his cock shamefully half-hard between his legs, and he rolled his forehead to the cool wood of the table, squeezing his eyes tight closed. 

John growled deep in his chest as his hand shot up, rage flaring through him, and caught Sherlock by the roots of his hair again. He wrenched his head back, noting with intense displeasure how Sherlock was attempting to retreat. 

"I've asked you a bloody question." 

Sherlock gave a scream of pain as his hair was wrenched, bucking wildly for a moment, regardless of the way it ground his now bare arse over the rough fabric of John’s jeans. “ No. _No_ , John. Let me go. _Let me Go_.” Sherlock released the table with his free hand, supported now only on the balls of his feet and a few inches of chest, arched as he was. Reaching behind, he scrabbled madly, trying to push the other man away. 

John smirked as he caught Sherlock's flailing hand, the attempt from Sherlock to dislodge him from such an angle amusing him as he wrenched the previously free wrist up to join with the other at the center of Sherlock's back. 

He leaned away, scrambling to unfasten his own trousers, dipping his hand into the partially opened fabric, springing his erection free. 

"Every day you forget who I am. You look right through me as though I'm not there," he growled, leaning in so that his cock rested along the shallow line of Sherlock's cheeks. "And every day I try to keep my mind away from your body, from this, from wanting you constantly. Everyone else is a distraction from you. A second-rate alternative to what you dangle in front of me, tease out of me, and never give me." 

Sherlock let out a completely uncharacteristic noise, a distraught, choked groan as John’s cock pressed in, rested between his cheeks, the position exposing the very core of him to the other man. He felt open, naked in a way he’d never felt before, which sent unpleasant, skittering shivers down his spine, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. 

John’s cock was hard, unexpectedly hot against the cool flesh of his backside, and he felt his cheeks burning with the shame of it, another sound of distress exiting his lips. 

John noted the way Sherlock trembled beneath him, suddenly angry with the material blocking his view. He grabbed the cuff of Sherlock's shirt and wrenched it down, satisfied with the sound of tearing fabric as he viciously tugged the material one-handed. It took several tries to get the buttons to yield, trapped as they were between Sherlock's chest and the wood of the table. Finally he slipped the expensive tatters down Sherlock's shoulders, mouth watering as he exposed pale, smooth skin over quivering muscles. 

"You've known this whole time. You _must_ have," John began to speak as he worked the material up to Sherlock's pinned hands, "Walking in on me in the shower, the way I've been darting to the loo every time we've been close for more than a minute." He managed to tie a single inverted sleeve around one wrist, wrenching it tight enough to bite into the skin before starting in on the other, "The day you pinned me to the brick like that, flushing your body against mine, good god, you simply had to know what you were doing. What it was doing to me. I thought I was _straight_ , for fuck's sake, until _you_ came along." 

He took a moment to flex his hand in the air, now free of the physical burden of restraining Sherlock's hands, satisfied with the impossibly tight system of knots he'd worked Sherlock's shirt into around his wrists. 

Sherlock gave a small litany of groans and whimpers against the table, wincing as he felt John tying off the fabric round his wrists and hands, his fingers trapped inside, not able to even get at the knots, no chance of being able to untie them, but at least he could shift the whole mess and release some of the pent up pressure in his now aching shoulder.

John’s words were driving through him, and it all seemed obvious to him now, made him flush with shame and arousal at the thought that this whole time, John had _wanted_ him, had ached for him. The thought made warmth pool low in his belly, thrumming through his loins. 

With two free hands, John set to his desires without restriction. He brought a palm to his mouth, closing his eyes and rolling his hips against Sherlock's as he sucked a wet stripe across his own hand. Satisfied with his work, he splayed a firm hand across Sherlock's back, pressing down ruthlessly hard as he reached around Sherlock and took his cock in hand, groaning at the slick slide of hot, hard flesh under his skilled fingers. 

Sherlock sucked in a hard breath of surprise as John’s hand, hot and rough and wet, clasped round his half-hard prick, tugging it, and he let out a moan of discontent as he felt his traitorous body responding, heat pooling in him, cock lengthening under the too-rough pull of John’s fingers. 

"Oh, Jesus, you _like_ this," John growled as Sherlock groaned and his cock jumped in his hand. He rolled his hips, head tipping back as he moved his hand over Sherlock, kicking up the pace. "I've wanted you for so damn long, Sherlock. You've done everything in your power to keep my attention focused on you, to keep me from forgetting how fucking badly I wanted this. You win. God, _look_ at you. Fuck," he sputtered, pushing his hips roughly against Sherlock's, dragging the firm hand at his back up higher to bury his fingers in the hair at the base of his scalp. 

Sherlock growled, trying to buck his hips away from John’s hand, from the uncomfortable arousal pooling in him, hot and potent and demanding. 

Unnecessary. 

Unwanted.

Despite John’s words, Sherlock shook his head, insofar as he was able with rough fingers tangling through the sensitive strands. 

John groaned as Sherlock struggled against him, bucking his hips in an effort to get loose. 

"Stop. Fighting. Me," John bit out, anger rearing its head once more. He abandoned Sherlock's hair to grab his neck in a bruising grip, thrusting his hips violently forward with enough force to move the table slightly. 

"I know you want this. Either you are a blind fool, or you've done this intentionally. Which is it, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock swore he could feel the individual swirls and whorls on John’s hard fingers as his head was forced down, fingers bruising on the long pale column of his throat, and he let out a growling moan of discontent, tugging at his wrists as John’s hips snapped against his, the groan of the table moving sounding distant to his ears. “Stop it, _stop it_ , John. Let me go.” Ever proud, Sherlock couldn’t admit that he’d missed all the signs, missed his own unintentional courtship. 

John went still with near blinding rage as Sherlock _dared_ to drop attitude at him even now. 

"Answer the question, Sherlock, or I _am_ going to hurt you." He all but whispered, in a voice low and stony with warning.

To lend credibility to his threat, he dropped a hand into the crevice of Sherlock's arse, dry fingers ghosting against the core of him, enough pressure to warn without causing discomfort just yet. 

Sherlock managed to turn his head to the side, pale eyes blazing, even as he shuddered with the warm pads of John’s fingers pressing against him. Sneering, he shot back, his voice full of venom. “You won’t hurt me, John. Don’t be _stupid_.” 

"Won't I?" The words dropped from his lips as he -in one synchronized motion- snagged his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, arching his head violently back as he pressed a single digit ruthlessly into Sherlock down to the webbing. 

"Do not toy with me, Sherlock." 

Sherlock’s entire body seemed to vibrate and stutter as John’s fingers wrenched his head back, forcing him open, and then there was a hard, burning press inside him, unwelcome and strange, foreign. “Ah!” He couldn’t help the cry of surprise and discomfort as John penetrated him, his cheeks flushing red. 

John held his position, fingers coiled in Sherlock's hair, maintaining the angle of his head, finger buried deep inside of Sherlock, and simply breathed for a moment. 

"Answer the question." 

He shifted the position of his hand just enough to roll the pad of the penetrating finger against the swell of Sherlock's prostate, waiting. 

Sherlock bucked, jumped wildly at the touch, a sharp cry of surprise echoing through the small space of the kitchen as white hot lights of unexpected pleasure jolted through him, lighting new nerve endings on fire. 

_Question. Question..._ there had been a question, but in his current state, Sherlock realized with a flutter of panic, he couldn’t remember it, couldn’t draw it to the front of his mind. Every muscle was drawn tight, the strain of the position already making a thin sheen of sweat stand out on his skin. “I... I....”

"What?" John hissed, rolling his finger over the bundle of nerves again. "You _what_?" He let the growing rage in his gut lace his words, his cock jumping at Sherlock's obvious reaction to his touch. 

Sherlock was flushed all down his throat now, across the tops of his shoulders, distraught, drawn so tight in mind and body he thought he might break under the strain of it. The hated words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. “I don’t know...” 

"You don't know." John repeated back, disbelieving. He drew his finger sharply away, releasing Sherlock's hair as he set his jaw in a hard line. 

"You don't know."

But John knew. Knew exactly what he wanted, exactly how to quell the rage and frustration roiling in his gut. He flicked his eyes around the kitchen, noting with satisfaction a bottle of oil on the counter several steps away. He looked down at Sherlock, at the sheen of sweat covering him, at the shake of his muscles. He had time. He had time. 

He nearly dropped a threat. 

Thinking better of it, he turned sharply away, hand on his trousers to keep them from slipping down as he swiftly moved to snatch the oil from the stove, glass crunching beneath his shoes.

Sherlock didn’t dare to move, even when John disappeared from behind him. With his trousers and pants round his knees, and his wrists bound, there was little he could do to get away, and any attempt would only raise John’s ire. Shivering, he turned an eye to see what John was doing, a soft, wretched moan muffled in the wood of the table. 

John returned swiftly, bottle in hand as he approached the table. "Just as you want to be, right, Sherlock?" He said with a sneer, tipping out a measure of the slick liquid, dropping the bottle down in front of Sherlock's face. 

He took himself in hand, groaning as he slicked the oil over himself, coming to stand at Sherlock's back again. 

"I've had more woman than I can remember in more countries I can count. None of it matters. None of them made me fucking _pine_ for them. None of them were damn beautiful the way you are. Jesus, Sherlock," He pressed a dry hand to Sherlock's back as his slick fingers dragged down into the valley of Sherlock's arse, slipping past the tight flesh of his entrance, sliding down behind his scrotum and then over the swell of it, along the base of his cock, until he finally wrapped his fingers around the shaft. 

He began a slow, steady stroke, leaning back over Sherlock to whisper in his ear. "Tell me how much you don't want this. I've come to love it when you _lie_ to me." 

Sherlock flushed, fidgeting, his knees trying to come together as John’s slick fingers ran over him, the steady, slick strokes bringing him quickly back to hardness, John’s words making his throat close tight, painful. Letting out a growl of discomfort, Sherlock managed to get his knees together, trapping John’s wrist between them as he sought, foolishly, to take back some measure of control. 

John stilled his hand as Sherlock brought his knees together, tipping his forehead to rest against the back of of Sherlock's neck with a bitter smile on his lips. 

It was effortless to free his hand, sliding the slicked palm and fingers through the hard press of Sherlock's thighs.

"Enough play, Sherlock? So eager already? Fine by me," he whispered dangerously against the back of Sherlock's neck. He took himself in hand, sliding into the tight line of Sherlock's arse, resting with just the slightest bit of searching against the impossibly tight center of him. 

"Unless you'd rather give up the fight and let me do this slowly." 

Sherlock felt panic and bile rise in his throat as John pressed against the core of him, and he clenched tightly, shaking his head fervently on the table. “No, John... No, don’t. Don’t, Don’t, I don’t want it.” Eddying, confusing waves of shame, arousal, guilt, disappointment, coalesced and crashed within him, creating a tidal storm of emotion that threatened to choke the breath from his lungs. 

John did not back away, nor did he press forward. He slipped a testing foot between Sherlock's, attempting to ease his legs apart again. 

Sherlock’s legs were visibly shaking with the effort of keeping his knees together, but he clamped them tighter all the same as John’s foot tried to nudge them back apart. 

"Stop fighting me, or this will hurt."

It was the last warning John was going to give him as his cock twitched in his hand and the willpower to keep himself from plunging into the man beneath him slipped away like sand in an hourglass. 

"I will hurt you, do not think that I won't. I’m starting to think you _want_ me to cause you pain." 

Sherlock gave a broken sob against the table, biting his swollen, broken lip, his knees finally parting as he gave in, still trembling violently. He couldn’t bare to look at the other man, so he turned his forehead back to the table, fisting his fingers in the mangled fabric of his shirt as he tried to mentally and physically prepare himself for what was inevitably coming next. 

John eased back as Sherlock yielded, sliding a steady hand up Sherlock's back, rubbing small circles into the skin as he gave himself a few calming tugs to quell the sudden spike of desire. 

He released his cock and returned his fingers to Sherlock's arse, his foot pushing Sherlock's feet wider apart to better expose him. Without hesitation, he slid a slick digit into Sherlock, slowly working him open as the hand at Sherlock's back stopped rubbing soothing circles and became a source of physical restraint once more. 

Sherlock fell quiet save for a grunt of discomfort, clenching hard around the intrusion of John’s slick finger inside him again, and he couldn’t help but pull forward, trying to round his back, to escape the strange, odd press of something inside him, where it shouldn’t be. 

John chased him forward with a growl, irritation growing with the man's attempts at escape. 

"Do you know how many times I've imagined bending you over this table and fucking you within an inch of your life? Sitting in that damn chair, pretending to read the paper, willing my goddamn hard on away as you've sauntered about, breaking into my personal space, constantly demanding my attention. _I know you fucking want this_."

He dipped a second finger into him, rolling his prostate between the oil-slicked digits. 

Sherlock flushed, couldn’t help a choked, broken moan as that spot inside him was hit again, his hips snapping. It was sharp, so pleasurable it almost hurt, and the younger man’s cheeks flushed with shame as his cock gave a bob between his legs, perking back to life on its own, betraying the intent of it’s owner. “Please...” It wasn’t a word Sherlock used often, save when he wasn’t getting his way, but this one was different, a legitimate plea for John to stop. 

John Watson was never one to feed on power like so many he'd been forced to work with. It never went to his head, never made him glory in it. 

Until he'd taken power away from Sherlock Holmes and held it in his own hands, stripped the control from the impossible man beneath him. The plea shot straight to his cock, stilling his hands as the sensation washed over him, making his fingers flex into the skin of his back. 

"Say it again," John whispered, deadly cold. 

"Say that again." 

Sherlock gave a soft cry, his forehead pressed to the wood of the table, the word slipping, feather-soft and broken from his tongue as he repeated it. “Please....” 

"Fuck," John bit out, dragging his fingers out of Sherlock.

He gripped Sherlock's hips with both hands, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as wave after wave of intense arousal crashed over him, dragging away his intention to not hurt the man below him. 

"Funny how you've always ignored that same word from me, yet invoke it for yourself." He snarled, anger snapping up to dance with his arousal. 

He grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck again, grip cold as steel, as he took himself in hand and pressed against the core of the man, taking a few last steadying breaths, ready to jump off the edge of the world. 

Sherlock let out a groan, wincing as John pulled his fingers free, shuddering slightly with the very brief respite. But it wasn’t over, it seemed. Oh no. Suddenly his neck was forced down again, and there was a hard press, firm and hot, at the center of his being, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, trying to see, as if by seeing he could prevent what was not inevitable. He could feel the press, the stretch of John’s cock just behind him. Too big, and his breath started to stutter, panic flooding through him in prickling hot waves.

“John.. John.... _please_...” 

John’s name and the honest, open fear behind the words pulled at the darkest recesses of John's being, roaring to life monsters long put to ground. 

"No." 

He pressed forward with a shout, eyes slamming shut in response to the impossible tightness of Sherlock's body as he leaned _in, in, in,_ violently kicking Sherlock's legs further apart as he gave himself up to carnal raging desire. He wasn't breathing. Didn't need to breathe as he struggled against Sherlock's body, a string of expletives on his lips as he sank home. 

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was screaming, his face contorted as the sudden threat of pressure became a sharp slide of pain. _Wrong._ It felt wrong. He felt full, invaded, defiled. John was _inside_ him, invading him, splitting him in two. It burned, it pulled, it seemed an impossible stretch to accommodate, and Sherlock felt his brain shut off, out of body. Take a number, back later.

He was aware, likewise, that his entire body went suddenly rigid, every muscle drawing so tight it hurt, like he might snap in two, or break into a thousand tiny pieces, scatter on the kitchen floor like the glass remains of his precious experiments. 

John gave himself a moment to breathe once fully seated, panting with exertion. Sherlock was locked up tight beneath him, legs shaking. 

"Sherlock," he whispered, releasing the man's neck as it was clear he no longer required restraint beyond the bonds at his hands. 

He grabbed the bottle beside Sherlock's face, tipping a measure back into his palm before drawing back slowly, wet hand drizzling the slick liquid over himself. "So fucking...god...just..." he stumbled over the words as he drove back in, faster than he intended, hands curling around Sherlock's hips. "Sherlock," he called to him again, teeth clenched. 

Sherlock gave a low, distressed noise as John plunged back in. The pain was less this time, but it still burned, he still felt impossibly full, like he might burst from the inside. He felt his entire body rock forward with the force of John’s thrust, the wet, slick sound of it making Sherlock’s stomach turn, the feel of oil on his perineum, the inside of his thighs, making him already feel soiled, dirty. With a wretched sob he resigned himself to it, body held tight in anticipation of the next movement of John’s hips. 

"Acting...won't help," John panted as he pulled himself back, bending his knees to change the angle of penetration. He slid a hand around Sherlock's hips to grab his cock, fist sliding in time with the slow build of his thrusts. "Your body is...telling..me...everything," he huffed, snapping his hips forward, rocking the table hard forward as his control slipped away. "Pretending...even now." 

Sherlock’s gave voice to a wrecked, desperate moan as John’s hand closed over his cock, little more than half-hard, but still interested in the proceedings. He was unraveling, entire body shaking, going numb as John continued pressing into him, over and over, the pressure, the stretch of it never seeming to lessen, and Sherlock could feel the hot burn of tears slipping down his cheeks as he just gave himself over to it. 

John curled his chest over Sherlock's back, seething anger coiling with blinding arousal to pool low in his gut. "How is _this_ for... _useful_...Sherl..Sherlock?" he growled, driven with a purpose now, snapping his hips forward with ruthless force. He slipped a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him down into every thrust, forcing him to stay in the present. 

All Sherlock wanted was to float away in the shell of his own mind, to leave his useless body here to the ravages of pain and pleasure and John’s hands, too rough, too insistent. He was a mess, tears streaking his face, mixing with the blood from his lip, and Sherlock could taste salt and iron and all the bitterness that followed.

The wracking pain seemed to be flowing into a constant throb, an ache deep within him that would never settle, a scar written inside him. There were no more words, nothing for Sherlock to do but grit his teeth and wait for it to end. 

John went suddenly still, the threat of climax licking up from the base of his spine, drawing his bullocks up to his body. He froze and clenched his teeth, breathing slowly even as he continued the steady slide of his hand over Sherlock's cock. 

"Crying, Sherlock?" He sneered as he combed rough fingers into the sweat-slicked fringe of Sherlock's hair, sweeping it away from his eyes. " _Tears_? From _you_ of all people?" He refused to move within him, steady stroking, letting his anger out in bitter words and the rhythm of his hand. 

Sherlock grimaced, flinched as John pushed his hair away from his tear and blood-stained face, lip and jaw swollen, eyes wide, glassy, distant. He could barely feel the rough hand on his cock, was nowhere near reaching his own orgasm, if ever he had been to begin with. John’s anger broke upon him like waves on sand, beating him down, breaking him into tiny pieces, where once he had been hard, unyielding. 

"Speak, Sherlock," he demanded, noting how distant the man beneath him seemed, how unresponsive he was now. If John was going to meet the devil, he was going to do it properly. 

God, Sherlock didn’t want to say anything, couldn’t bear to dredge up words through the hateful noise in his head. His pale eyes flicked to John’s, his eyebrows furrowing, tears falling softly down the pale, soft skin of his cheeks. The word that came was broken, sad, betrayed. “Why?” It was everything that Sherlock couldn’t bear to say. 

John snarled at him, wrenching his neck so that Sherlock could not look at him, furious for the display from the stubborn, seemingly heartless man below him. Refusing to feel guilt before fulfilment. 

"Work it out, you’re the _fucking_ genius, after all" he snapped cruelly, thrusting viciously into him again as he released his cock, gripping Sherlock's shoulder to pull him down into the fury manifesting in sex. 

Sherlock allowed himself one more choked moan, eyes flicking tight closed as the assault continued, glad for the removal of John’s hand from his prick, allowing him now to simply float away, to disconnect and switch off. 

John managed the position, the intense, furious thrust against the table for several minutes more before the threat of climax nipped at his heels. Sherlock had gone lax and pliant beneath him, like a broken thing. 

The image infuriated him, left him with an empty, raw sensation in his gut. 

"Fuck you, Sherlock. _Fuck you,_ " he spat, pulling roughly out of the man. 

Like _hell_ was it going to end like this. He stalked to the counter again, leaving Sherlock trembling against the table without a word. He returned on the crunching of glass, a knife in hand. He found Sherlock's fingers through the cloth shirt-turned-restraints before cutting the fabric free. 

He grabbed Sherlock's upper arm as he tossed the knife far to the side and ripped the fabric free, pulling Sherlock off the table with a terrible shake. 

"You are not going inside your fucking head, tonight. No." He shoved him roughly into the nearest chair. "Take your damn clothes off," he snarled, stepping back to take himself in hand, roughly tucking himself haphazardly into his pants. 

Sherlock was snapped back to himself by the crunch of glass, the raw ache inside himself as John pulled away, and then returned, the rip of fabric as the shirt was cut free. He gave a low groan as circulation flooded back into his arms. Without warning he was ripped up, shoved into a kitchen chair. He was trembling, shaking, his face a mess, tears and blood streaked across it.

John was looming over him, and Sherlock looked up, his eyebrows furrowed. His pants and trousers were still tangled round his knees, and rather than force them down, he grabbed them with trembling fingers and yanked them up, trying to cover his shame, hating the feel of oil still dripping between his thighs, everything burning, hurting, aching. 

John was on him in an instant, one hand gripping the back of the chair, the other clamping around Sherlock's jaw in an iron grip. 

"I will sodding _beat you_ until you understand your position. Take. Your clothes. Off." He hissed in warning. 

Sherlock gave a choked sound, both hands rising to push John hard away from the chair, and he managed to stand, trembling, his face angry, his limbs trembling. “Do you understand what you’re _doing_ , John?” 

"Do I fucking look _confused_ , Sherlock?" he snapped back, hand shooting out to catch Sherlock about the throat as the man went to his feet on shaking legs. He bullied him backwards, pressing him into the sitting room. He kept his grip light enough for Sherlock to breathe, tight enough to control where they moved. 

Sherlock’s hands raised to John’s arm, clutching as tight as tired fingers would allow, but John was forcing him backwards, and he had no choice but to move his feet, his trousers threatening to fall again as they moved. 

"You pushed and you fucking pushed, and then you sodding _pushed again,_ " he seethed, pressing past their chairs, past the sofa, into Sherlock's all-but-empty room. "Jesus Christ I _loved you_. Love you. But you would never love me, would you? Just John, just a _fucking tool_ for you, as handy as a phone, as useful as a sodding dog. Isn't that right, Sherlock?" His voice cracked for a moment, an edge of pain leaking thought the fury. 

He shoved him back onto the bed, releasing him. "Don't make me hurt you again, Sherlock. Just take your fucking clothes off." 

Sherlock tried to shake his head, to disagree, but his mouth was dry, numb as John forced him into the bedroom, onto the bed, and he hated the way his body was reacting, trembling, quivering all over, his pale eyes, filled with hurt, with betrayal, staring at the other man, but he just shook his head, made no move to take off his trousers. 

John growled low in his chest, wrenching forward to tear Sherlock's shoe from his foot. It came free with little effort, as did its mate before Sherlock could intercept him. 

He reached up, hands intent on grabbing the man's trousers. 

Sherlock pulled away, drawing back farther on the bed, shaking his head, trying to wiggle out of John’s grasp .”John no, please don’t.” His hands gripped at his trousers as he squirmed across the bed, intent on avoiding the other man. 

But John grabbed his hip ruthlessly, dragging him back towards him. "Shut up, Sherlock," he hissed, tearing Sherlock's hands away from his clothes to tear them from his legs. 

"I'll have this and then you'll be rid of me. _I will have this,_ " he let the words drop like stone from his lips, crawling over the trembling, newly-naked man. 

Sherlock let out another broken sound of protest, shaking his head. The idea of John _leaving_ , strangely, sat heavier in his stomach than what was happening at current, make his world spin uncomfortably. He was aware that John was crawling on top of him again. “If I... If I let you have... _me_... you’ll... stay?” His throat was so tight he felt he couldn’t breathe, John’s weight horrible on top of him, constricting him, pinning him down. 

"Why would I stay?" He hissed, fingers curling around Sherlock's wrists, pressing them into the mattress at the sides of his head. 

"You do not want me. I mean _nothing_ to you." 

He leaned down, latching his mouth to the underside of Sherlock's ear, sucking at the skin greedily. 

Sherlock flushed as John pinned him down, as the other man’s mouth found his skin. “No... That’s not true... John I...” it was hard to articulate, hard to think with John pinning him down, with hard fingers back on his bruised wrists, and he squirmed unconsciously beneath the other man. 

"Don't." John snapped, violence awoken yet again with lies that threatened to spill from Sherlock's mouth. "Don't." 

He reached down and pulled one of Sherlock's legs up, pressing the knee out as he slid into the opened area, clothed hips pressing up into him. 

Sherlock’s newly freed hand raised to desperately clutch John’s bicep, long fingers digging into the flesh, a groan of desperation running through him as the other man ground against him. “Don’t leave me... I need you... I could love you....” 

John let fly his hand, striking Sherlock hard across the face. 

“I said _shut up_ , Sherlock.” he seethed, hips flexing up as blinding fury tore across his vision, setting his hands shaking. 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as John struck him again, his eyes closing tight, his fingers digging into John’s arm again as he focused on the sharp sting, the dull throb after, letting it draw him away from the present, from John’s anger. 

"What are you doing," John shouted, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and shaking him. 

"What the hell is this? What game are you playing at?" 

His voice cracked as he shouted, pulse thundering in his ears. 

Sherlock gasped, clinging to John as he was shaken, eyes tight closed. “Not a game.... I swear, it’s not a game.” He couldn’t help but continue to cling to John, having nowhere else to turn. 

John roared with anger, fury twisting his features as he reached down and pulled himself free again. 

"Fool," he hissed, pressing the firm head of himself against Sherlock. "Fucking _fool._ "

He snapped his hips forward without warning, eyes clamping shut as he locked his jaw with the feel of it, losing himself to the act. 

Sherlock grit his teeth, tensing as the other man pushed back into him. It hurt. Badly. But it was... easier, knowing what to expect. “Hurts... John, you’re hurting me...” It still felt surreal, that John, _his_ John, was pressing him down so hard into his bed, that he was being invaded, taken this way. 

John couldn't stand to hear him any longer, manifesting his shattering countenance with each thrust of hips. He reached up and pressed a hand over Sherlock's mouth, fingers tight around his jaw as he let his head fall to his own chest, driving into the body below him, heat coiling terribly at the base of his spine. 

Sherlock was actually glad for the hand over his mouth, and he was able to give vent freely to the hard noises of pain and desperation behind John’s palm, clinging desperately to him, thigh pushing at the other man, trying to move him away. It wasn’t enough to do anything, wasn’t enough to keep the other man’s hips from snapping hard against him, tearing him from the inside out. 

It didn't take long. Not after the impossible events of the evening, after the torturous slow build of everything, all the things that were not simply desire boiling inside him, cloying his nerves, slicing through his mind. 

He climaxed on a bitter, shaking breath, head dropping down to Sherlock's shoulder, nausea rising with instant infusion in his gut. 

Sherlock cried out sharply as John’s hips snapped against him, flushing as he felt the other man spill inside him, thick and hot. John would forever be a part of him now. Cells and DNA merging inside him, as little bits of nutrients were absorbed by his body. Shutting his eyes, tears dropping softly from them, down the long line of his nose, he let his head roll sideways, going limp beneath the other man, utterly shattered. 

John rolled away from Sherlock as soon as he caught his breath, taking a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, his head dropping to his hands as his stomach turned. 

Three times he opened his mouth to speak. Three times he snapped it closed, shaking his head again. He pushed himself to his feet, tucking himself back into his trousers. 

Looking back with an impossible wave of regret at what he’d done, he grabbed the edge of the blankets on the bed and flipped them over Sherlock's trembling form before pushing out the door. He grabbed his coat before making his way down the stairs, vanishing into the night without a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Written by Amphigoriously and Eden Kestral
> 
> amphigoriously.tumblr.com/
> 
> ~
> 
> edenkestral.tumblr.com/


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